Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
by Golden Asp
Summary: Corypheus is dead, but at a terrible cost. Cullen remembers. CullenxEllana Levellan Warning: character death, sad one shot. Please read and review!


AN: so this depressing little number came into my head and wouldn't leave me be. Dragon Age Inquisition is not mine, I just played with the characters, especially poor Cullen. Empty Chairs at Empty Tables is from Les Miserables, and if you want to be super depressed, listen to that song while reading this. I had it on loop while I wrote it. Bad plan on my part. No profits are made from this, ya'll know the drill. Please leave a review! I haven't written a one shot in a long time, and reviews are amazing.

Warning: character death

Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

by Golden Asp

 _There's a grief that can't be spoken_

 _There's a pain goes on and on…_

It was finally over. Cullen had been wandering Skyhold aimlessly since they had received the news. Corypheus was dead. Thedas was safe, as safe as it ever was.

But at a terrible cost. Cullen knew there was something he should be doing right now. Shouldn't he be celebrating? Look at the people around him, those she had gathered around her, they were celebrating, shouldn't he be celebrating as well?

 _Empty chairs at empty tables_

 _Now my friends are dead and gone…_

He couldn't. She had promised that she would come back, and she hadn't. They were dead. They weren't coming back. _She_ wasn't coming back.

He had walked through Skyhold, looking at the places they had frequented. He had drifted through the stables. Look, there was her hart, staring mournfully at him. There was a half-finished rocking horse that Blackwall (or whatever the hell his name really was) had lovingly carved for the growing number of children in Skyhold. Now, it would never be finished. Its eyes stared blankly at him.

He was in the training yard, staring at the dummies Cassandra had worked at every day. It was easy to see the scars on the dummies from her sword. He turned and stumbled away.

He had wandered through the library. Here was the chair Dorian liked to frequent, complaining about Skyhold's limited books. There was the spot where Vivienne stood and looked over the grounds. And there, beside the door, was the desk where Varric had written. His quill silent now, never to write again.

He found himself in Solas' chambers, the murals lording over him. We are still here, they said, and we will be here long after you are gone. He hurried from the Apostate elf's room.

When he found himself standing in his office, staring at the desk, he hurried from the room, unable to face those memories.

He entered the tavern on the upper floor. It was eerily quiet. No tavern should be this quiet.

 _Here they talked of revolution_

 _Here it was they lit the flame…_

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The tavern was empty, its occupants having spilled out onto the grounds to celebrate the great victory.

There in the corner was where that strange spirit boy Cole would huddle. Cullen had never felt easy around the boy, but Ellana had trusted him, and Cullen had trusted Ellana.

Implicitly. He had never felt like that about anyone before. She swore she would come back to him.

She lied.

 _Here they sang about tomorrow_

 _And tomorrow never came…_

She was dead, her body reduced to nothing but ash, those ashes mixed with the ashes of her trusted inner circle, and with Corypheus.

Cullen stumbled down the stairs to the second floor. Empty. Silent. He wandered slowly over to the corner where Sera had lived with all of her things. He opened the book next to the door, seeing but not comprehending the words. He closed it with a snap, remembering the pranks she had played on him, and the time she had gotten Ellana to participate…

He spun away and went to the bottom floor. At first, he thought he was alone, but there was a lone barmaid standing behind the bar, her brown eyes following his movement. He did not acknowledge her as he walked to Bull's seat.

 _From the table in the corner_

 _They could see a world reborn…_

He could vividly remember Ellana drinking herself under that very table, trying to keep up with Iron Bull after the first dragon they had killed together. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the Charger's raucous, rowdy (terrible) singing.

 _And they rose with voices singing_

 _And I can hear them now!_

 _The very words that they had sung_

 _Became their last communion_

 _On this lonely barricade at dawn…_

There was a gentle clunk next to him, and Cullen's eyes flew open. He saw the barmaid (what was her name? He thought it might be Krysta) walking away from him. His eyes dropped to the chair next to him, the chair that Iron Bull so often sat in, and he saw a mug of frothy ale.

He picked it up with a frown, staring into it. How long had it been since Leliana's scout had barged into the war room and had given them the news? Minutes, hours, days? It felt as if he had aged a lifetime since then.

He could remember it with startling clarity. Leliana, Josephine, and he had been studying the war table, avoiding talking to one another. Waiting. Then the scout had come in.

"Corypheus is gone," he had whispered, his eyes darting to each of the Inquisitor's advisors. Was he avoiding looking at Cullen?

"That is wonderful news," Josephine had said with a delighted sigh. "When will the Inquisitor be returning?"

The scout gulped, his eyes darting to Cullen, and away.

"She won't be," he whispered, "they didn't make it."

Leliana closed her eyes and turned away, Josephine covered her mouth, Cullen thought he had let out a strangled cry, but he couldn't be sure. Everything became hazy after that. He may have grabbed the scout, screaming into his face. The scout didn't fight him, just stared at the Commander with sad eyes.

Cullen had run. He had to run. Maybe if he could just make it to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, he could find her, and she wouldn't be dead. She would be waiting for him, that half smile on her face.

He had reached the gate, but a group of scouts held him back. He fought, he pleaded, he begged, but they said nothing. He finally turned away, and began wandering Skyhold.

 _Oh my friends, my friends forgive me_

 _That I live and you are gone…_

His fist clenched on the mug. If only he had gone with them! Then…then he wouldn't be here, alone, staring at the empty tables of The Herald's Rest, trying to outrun his memories.

 _There's a grief that can't be spoken_

 _There's a pain goes on and on…_

His hand slipped to the pocket sewn into his trousers, and his fingers clasped the vial there. He glanced at the barmaid, who was studiously looking away from him, and he pulled the vial out.

It was small, no bigger than his smallest finger, and full of black powder. Powdered Deathroot and Black Lotus. A potent, fast acting poison. A few grains were enough to make a full grown man violently ill for days, any more than that, and it was fatal.

He had taken it from Leliana's desk. Her agents carried this poison. One never knew when a noble would have to be poisoned. It also worked well for agents who were captured. It was supposed to be fast, in a high enough dose.

He spun the vial through his fingers, thinking, remembering. He had seen the vial on Leliana's desk a week or so ago and had taken it. He didn't know why he had done it at the time, but it had stayed in his pocket, a weight against his thigh. Sometimes, he thought he had seen Leliana looking at him strangely, and he wondered if she knew he was the one who had taken it.

He glanced up at the barmaid again. She was busy wiping down glasses.

Cullen's hand spasmed around the vial. With a snort, he uncorked the vial and dumped the whole thing into his ale. He spun the ale slowly, mixing the black powder as well as he could. The ale turned a dark, unnatural color.

The vial slipped from his hand, hit the floor, and shattered. A small moan escaped his lips. The sound of crashing glass reminded him of that night, after the Winter Palace. He remembered how he had shoved everything off his desk and had taken her there, ignoring the shattered glass on the floor around them. And after that the slow discovery of each other's bodies, and leisurely love making in his bed.

 _Phantom faces at the windows_

 _Phantom shadows on the floor…_

With a shudder, he raised the mug to his lips and began to drink. It tasted awful, bitter. His stomach rebelled almost immediately, but he fought the gag reflex and got it all down. He leaned back, his hands holding the mug tightly to him.

His heart raced, and the tavern was suddenly much, much hotter. His vision swam. He could almost see them, flitting around the edge of his vision.

 _Empty chairs at empty tables_

 _Where my friends will meet no more…_

Listen! He closed his eyes and he could hear them. Bull's loud laugh, the sound of him clapping someone on the back. It must have been Dorian, because he can hear Dorian now, chastising Bull about not bathing. There is Sera's snorting laughter, and Solas' sharp words to the other elf. And now Varric, telling Solas to lighten up, they've won after all. And there is Vivienne's dulcet voice talking softly to an older gentleman that he doesn't know. Who was he?

And now he can hear Cole, wanting to help. He always wanted to help. There is Cassandra, sitting next to Varric, trying to convince him to continue with his romance serial.

Their voices swirled around him, their images dancing before him. All but one. The one he was so desperate to see; the voice he was so very desperate to hear.

 _Oh my friends, my friends don't ask me_

 _What your sacrifice was for…_

He felt tears roll down his cheeks. Maker's breath, he hurt so much. It was so much worse than the Lyrium withdrawals. His hands were clenched so tightly around the mug that what part of his mind was still thinking rationally was surprised it hadn't broken yet.

Broken, just like him.

Maker, where was she? Why did she have to die? Hadn't there been some way, any way she could've survived?

 _Empty chairs at empty tables…_

"Cullen," he heard her whisper. He whimpered; his eyes clenched shut through the pain. He felt her fingers brush his cheek, and she whispered his name again. She was here. She came back to him.

"Ellana," he murmured. His fingers relaxed their hold on the mug, and his breath left his body in a rush.

 _Where my friends will sing no more._

The mug slipped from Cullen's limp fingers, hit the floor, and rolled away to rest under the empty table, of the empty tavern.


End file.
